


Sing About Me, I'm Dying Of Thirst

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: FaceFucking, Gross, M/M, Rimming, Spitroasting, dubcon, lazy susan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 14:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nemeton talks to him in his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing About Me, I'm Dying Of Thirst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eeames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeames/gifts).



The Nemeton talks to him in his dreams.

 

It’s not a voice, or a person exactly.  He sees things, and he knows they’re not real, but they’re possible futures.  Things he could have, things he could be.   He looks down at himself, sometimes covered in blood, sometimes covered in gold, and he knows the Nemeton wants him to choose, tempts him closer to giving in every time he closes his eyes.

 

He tries staying awake at first, tries pacing and obstructing every soft surface in his room, sets a vibrating alarm on his phone to go off every five minutes.   It doesn’t work, he eventually passes out, has to, and then he finds himself standing at a graveyard, looking at headstones for every person he’s ever disliked.  Deucalion, Ms. Blake, down to Harris and the secretary at the office who calls his father when he’s late.    He knows the message of this one, knows the Nemeton is tempting him with power to revenge, to take back some of his own on the people who have made his life hell so far.  It’s a heady thought, but despite how violent Stiles knows he can get, part of him shies away from this, wants nothing to do with it.   He wakes up, and he’s shivering, sprawled on the floor in the bathroom, hips and shoulders aching where they’ve been resting against the tile.

  
From then on he doesn’t try to stop it.  He says goodnight to his dad, brushes his teeth and climbs into bed.  There’s no use in fighting it, but he can stay strong.   _Wake up_ he tells himself when he watches his father receive an honor from the president, _wake up_ he screams when he assassinates them both..

 

It’s all a matter of resistance, but he can tell the Nemeton grows angry, displeased by Stiles’s continuing to ignore its pull.  It shows him life as a powerful emissary, a werewolf, even more lives than he knew were possible.  

 

It gets harder and harder to tell himself to wake up, to clutch his own head, surrounded by wealth and power and darkness and death and dig in until he wakes up bleeding at his temples.  

 

But he does it.  He rejects the things the Nemeton has to offer, because Scott tells him to.  He tells Scott all of his dreams, all the things he’s being offered, because Scott and Allison are resisting too, and Scott squeezes him, tells him it’ll be okay. Somehow, it’s enough.

 

Until it’s not.

 

The first clue that Stiles has that this isn’t a normal dream is that he’s in a motel room, the motel where the bus had broken down, the one where Stiles had almost lost Scott.  He’s lying on his back on the bed and there’s someone between his legs, someone holding him open, someone with their tongue in his ass.

 

Stiles spasms, because it’s good, it feels like electricity licking up his spine having someone there where no one has ever been.  “God,” he groans out loud, and there’s a dark laugh, a hot rush of air gusting over his balls and this is new, _this is so new_.  

  
The tongue fucking into him is hot and wet and he doesn’t know how he got here, but he can’t do anything but push back, to lean into it.  Whoever it is must have been at it for awhile, because Stiles can feel himself dripping, sloppy and wet and open.  He can’t, god, he can’t finish a thought nevermind move.  It’s all he can do to grind down, to dig his heels into the man’s back, and groan.  

 

He feels it next, a finger, just one, slide in right next to the hot tongue.  Stiles wants to clear his head, wants to think, wants to at least know--but he can’t.  He shoves down on the finger, lets his legs open even wider, slutty for it.

 

There’s an approving noise below him and one becomes two, with the man’s tongue stabbing and licking between them.  Stiles opens for him like he’s done this all his life, like his body knows just what to do and when two becomes three, it’s all Stiles can do but to beg, plead, throw his head back on the pillow and howl.  

  
The hand on his hip holding him down moves down, cups his thigh and helps him turn over.  Stiles loses the fingers inside and he sucks in a gust of air, about to cry out when he feels those same slick fingers holding him wide open, exposing his hole and he keens, mortified at what he must look like, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t do anything except drop his shoulders to the bed and press his heated face into the pillow.  He might be crying now, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care about anything except the slow, heavy press of the cock at his hole.  

 

“Please,” he says, “please, please, oh please,” and he’s stretched so wide it feels like he’s being turned inside out, in the sexiest, most mind-blowing way possible.

 

“Gonna give it to you,” he hears, a grunt over his shoulder as the thrusts start, sharp and firm.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “yeah, do it, c’mon Derek.”

 

Everything stops for a second.  He doesn’t mean they pause, or that Stiles freezes.  Literally, every part of the dream goes completely still, and then just as quickly, unfreezes.  

  
Stiles turns his head, twists to see who’s fucking into him, yanking him back onto his dick, and oh fuck, it’s Scott’s dad.  “You want Derek?” he says, in a voice that doesn’t belong to him.  “You can have whatever you want, Stiles.”  

 

The door opens and Derek comes in.  He’s looking at Stiles like he never has, and that’s how Stiles remembers this is a dream, this is the Nemeton.  Derek doesn’t look at him like that, doesn’t stare at him with that heat in his eyes.  Derek is in the east with his sister, he’s not standing in front of Stiles, unbuckling his belt, kicking his pants off and to the side.  

 

Stiles opens his mouth to say it, to yell at himself to wake up, but Derek takes that time to push in, to fill his mouth.  Stiles has thought about this, has pictured the weight and the heft of Derek’s cock in his mouth but he never thought it would happen.  It tastes different than he thought, strongly of Derek’s soap, bitter with precome at the tip.  Derek cups his jaw, sweetly, tender, and holds Stiles where he wants him before giving a small thrust.  

 

“Fuck yeah,” Mr. McCall says from behind him, and shoves into him, hard enough to make his balls slap loudly.  Stiles stiffens, because he forgot that part, forgot that it’s Mr. McCall behind him, inside of him, and it’s too much, he doesn’t--but he lets out a low moan around Derek’s cock when Mr. McCall hits right there, right at his prostate.   The two of them set up a rhythm, pulsing in and out of him and Stiles hangs on for dear life between them.  

 

“You look like such a slut,” Mr. McCall says, and he doesn’t say it like it’s a good thing, like he’s admiring Stiles for it. “Look at you, jesus, kid.”   Stiles can’t, but he can imagine how he looks, speared at both ends.  

  
Derek taps at his jaw, making Stiles look up and meet his eyes.  Derek’s eyes are dark, dark and when Stiles locks on, he thumbs the side of Stiles’s cheek, tracing his cock from the outside.  When Derek opens his mouth, a voice Stiles doesn’t recognize comes out, says, “No? Maybe the other way then?” and just like that, they’re spinning, spinning, and when they stop, it’s Derek between his legs, only Stiles is on his back.  Derek’s leaning into him, propping his left leg over his shoulder and thrusting so good, so sweet.

 

A hand on his jaw tips his head back, off of the bed, lets it hang down over the edge and Stiles opens up without complaint when Mr. McCall starts to thrust in.  He can’t breathe well like this, but it doesn’t matter.  The Nemeton doesn’t seem to want him to die, not like this.

 

“Gonna give it to you,” Derek says, loud over the throb in his ears, over the slick noise of Mr. McCall fucking his throat.  “Gonna give you whatever you want,” and his voice is soft, soft like Stiles has never heard it.

 

Scott’s dad laughs, harsh and bitter.  “He doesn’t want that, you idiot.  He wants you to take,” and punctuates the thought with a thrust that makes Stiles choke, brings tears back to his eyes.  “Just take what you want,” Scott’s dad says, smirking down like the asshole he is.  “He’s easy pickings.”

 

Stiles writhes between them, bewildered and overwhelmed.  He underestimated the Nemeton this time, wasn’t prepared for this.  Derek wraps a hand around his aching, neglected erection and Stiles pumps up, shoves into Derek's hand and around Scott’s dad’s cock, he gargles _wake up Stiles!  Wake up!_

 


End file.
